


There to hold your hand

by frostysunflowers



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Sick Peter Parker, Sickfic, Tonsillitis, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure, Tony Stark Has A Heart, Vomiting, Whump
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-28
Updated: 2019-09-28
Packaged: 2020-10-30 04:07:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20808260
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frostysunflowers/pseuds/frostysunflowers
Summary: He feels terrible. Worse than terrible. The razors in his throat are long and sharp and every short inhale of breath scratches like sandpaper. There’s a deep drumbeat inside his head and as a wracking cough makes itself known, he becomes aware of the jaw-nagging ache in his right ear.There’s no denying it now.Tonsillitis.





	There to hold your hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blondsak](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blondsak/gifts).

> A gift for my dear friend blondsak on her birthday. You are an absolute treasure of a person, someone that I adore very much and I really am so so so grateful that we connected in the fandom and became friends, because you're amazing and I love you lots! Happy happy happy birthday, I hope you feel better soon you queen! <3 <3
> 
> All of this is more or less based on my own experiences of having tonsillitis so if there's any medical inaccuracies, then clearly my body is medically inaccurate haha. This also features Bruce doing actual doctor things even when he's not that kind of doctor haha, but I love him so who cares. 
> 
> Also a huge thank you to all those of you who've been reading my fics and leaving such lovely comments - I WILL reply to them, but I've just been horrendously behind with everything lately, but please know they are truly so very much appreciated <3

Peter wakes to a relentless pressure in his head and a sharp stinging sensation behind his nose. 

He groans into his pillow, sluggishly kicking the covers away to let the chilly air seeping in through the open window brush against his sweaty skin. 

It had been so long since the last time, he was convinced that it would never happen again. The bite had done a hell of a lot towards improving his overall health, such as maximising his eyesight to a hundred percent and completely wiping out his many allergies, so it didn’t seem foolish to assume that the regular illnesses that had plagued him before would stop too. 

He hasn’t even had so much as a sniffle in the last year at least.

But as saliva suddenly swirls thickly against his tongue with an accompanying lurch of nausea, Peter knows he can’t deny the truth of the matter.

He’s sick. 

Praying that it’s just a cold, albeit a rather nasty one, Peter forces himself up, leaning forward with one hand holding his head as he waits for the room to steady itself. The clamour of everyday life outside his bedroom window seems louder than usual, and the leftover scent of May’s bacon sandwich breakfast makes his stomach churn. 

This is not going to be a good day. 

Peter manages to shower and get dressed, moving at the pace of an injured snail, before stumbling out into the kitchen. He fills a glass with water and sips it down, wincing as his throat contracts painfully. 

The urge to topple back into bed is almost overwhelming. 

But there’s an algebra test today and his biology paper is due, plus he promised Ned that he would swing by his place after school to work on their latest Lego project, so he morosely traipses out of the door and out into the drizzly Wednesday morning. 

* * *

''Dude, you really need to go home.''

Peter peeks open one eye to squint at Ned.

''Seriously, I can feel how warm you are without even touching you.''

Peter grunts and closes the eye as he rubs his face into the pillow of his arms. The typical hubbub of the cafeteria is a hellish cacophony that turns his thoughts to incoherent jelly inside his aching skull. His shirt sticks to his sweaty back and the earlier pain in his throat is now razor sharp, making it impossible to eat anything. Not that he has any intention on trying; he can barely breathe for how nauseous he feels.

''Why is he still here?''

Peter can’t even bring himself to lift his head from the table to acknowledge MJ’s appearance. 

''Because he’s Peter,'' Ned says, as though it explains everything. 

''He needs to go home. I feel sick just looking at him.''

''M’right here,'' Peter croaks, unable to find the energy to even feel truly affronted at MJ’s words.

''Yeah, right where we’ve just established you shouldn’t be.''

Something drops lightly onto the table, most likely a bag, and then MJ slides into the vacant seat beside him. Peter sluggishly opens one eye again to look at her, though it widens a little when MJ rests a cool palm against his forehead. 

On any other day, having MJ worry about him would be a dream come true, but right now all he can think about is how terrible he feels. 

That and how wonderful MJ’s fingers feel on his skin. 

''You need to call your aunt.''

''No,'' Peter grunts. ''Can’t ask her to miss work.''

''Mister Stark, then,'' Ned suggests. ''I bet he’d come and pick you up.''

The idea of Tony walking into his school, dressed in a multi-thousand dollar suit and looking every inch as important and famous as he actually is, makes Peter’s already roiling stomach do a somersault. With a muffled moan, he sits upright, blinking rapidly as his eyes adjust to the artificial brightness of the room. The pounding in his head is fiercer now, a sharp knocking on the back leading into a deep pulsing at the front. 

''Not calling Mister Stark either.''

Ned’s head falls exasperatedly into his hands. ''But - ''

''I’m fine. Promise.''

* * *

He is most definitely not fine. 

He had managed to make it through the last part of the day, but it had been a struggle. By the time the final bell rang, his shirt had turned dark nearly all over from sweat and his body was wrecked with shivers despite the fact that he felt like he was on fire. 

After stubbornly refusing once more to call Tony or May, Peter had begrudgingly accepted Ned’s offer to pay for a cab to take him home and dragged himself up the stairs to his apartment, nearly collapsing to the floor when he finally managed to unlock the door after repeatedly dropping his keys due to his clammy fingers.

Lying on his bed, stripped to his boxers and a fresh but rapidly dampening t-shirt, Peter can only curl up beneath the comforter and hug his pillow to his chest as the room whirls and whirls around him, tunnelling him downwards until he sinks into an exhausted, feverish sleep. 

Hours later, Peter becomes aware of an itching somewhere on his face. 

His arm feels like it weighs a thousand tons as he hauls it up, trying to remove the source of irritation. Something rustles and tickles his left eyebrow. 

There’s a note stuck to his forehead. 

He fumbles for it and holds it right up to his nose, unwilling to open his eyes to more than narrow slits. 

** _Didn’t want to wake you as you clearly need the sleep. I’m on a double shift but text me when you wake up. I don’t want you staying at home on your own today so call Tony._ **

** _I mean it, baby, CALL TONY. _ **

Underneath is a little doodle of a heart with a spider sitting on top of it. Peter presses the note to his mouth, eyes falling shut again. 

He feels terrible. Worse than terrible. The razors in his throat are long and sharp and every short inhale of breath scratches like sandpaper. There’s a deep drumbeat inside his head and as a wracking cough makes itself known, he becomes aware of the jaw-nagging ache in his right ear. 

There’s no denying it now. 

Tonsillitis. 

A tear slips out and it has nothing to do with the force of the coughing. All the times he’d been sick as a kid, May had been there. Being a nurse made her more than capable of taking care of him, but it was the little touches that made all the difference. A cool washcloth gently placed on his forehead, a hand gently tracing patterns on the back of his neck, a comforting embrace to curl up into. 

Ben had also kept a collection of special tricks up his sleeve for such occasions. Warm broths and tasty smoothies would be concocted and served in garish cups and bowls for maximum comfort and humour, and there was never any objection to sprawling out on the couch with a mess of blankets and old reruns of Star Trek playing all day on the television. 

The note crinkles as Peter’s fingers clench against the rush of emotion hurtling through him. He suddenly misses Ben so fiercely and wants May so desperately that he feels himself crack in half for a moment, aching and raw. He knows it’s silly really, that even if Ben was still here or if May was at home, he’s getting way too old to be looked after like that. 

Something landing on his chest makes him yelp and scramble back, vision blazing into a spotty whiteness as his head throbs in protest. 

''Droney,'' he rasps as the little metal spider skitters up his chest. A blue light engulfs him from head to toe, lingering for a few seconds as Droney hovers above him. 

Then the phone rings. 

Gently shoving Droney away, Peter tilts over, nearly falling down the gap between his bed and the nearby table before managing to grab his phone. 

'''Lo?'' he says in a harsh whisper. 

_ ''Hey there, germy.'' _

Nothing comes out of Peter’s mouth except a rusty crackle of air. A pang of _ something _ hits him square in the chest and he tucks his lower lip between his teeth as it wobbles. 

_ ''Can’t speak, huh? Wow, never thought I’d see the day.'' _

Peter huffs air loudly through his nose and Tony chuckles. 

_ ''Sit tight, kiddo. I’ll be there soon.'' _

Peter barely has time to compute those words before Tony hangs up. He slips back down in the bed, wincing at how ragged his breathing sounds in the quiet of his room. Droney settles beside him on the pillow, keeping watch like a tiny sentinel until Tony arrives. 

He must drift off again because the next thing he knows is an arm around his shoulders and the touch of cold water against his dry lips. 

''Ah ah, none of that, Pete,'' Tony says, holding him steady as he turns his head away. ''Just a little sip. You can do it, c’mon.''

Peter reluctantly opens his mouth and allows the water to trickle over his tongue, trying his hardest to keep his throat as lax as possible. He opens his eyes to look up into Tony’s face. The man smiles at him, brown eyes flickering with concern. 

''Mister Stark,'' Peter croaks, half the letters disappearing from his words. 

''Hi, kid.''

''What you doin’ here?'' he asks as Tony sits beside him, tucking Peter against his ribs.

''Your aunt called me. Seems she didn’t trust you to do it yourself.''

Peter feels like he should be some kind of mortified but instead he focuses on huddling into Tony, groaning as the pain traipsing through his body fully reawakens and flares into ferocity once again. 

Tony’s hand covers his forehead. 

''Feels good,'' Peter mutters, pressing into the contact. 

''Jeez, kid, you’re hot enough to fry an egg right now.''

The thought of eggs, greasy and spattering and soft, swizzles the heaving emptiness of his stomach and floods his mouth with a tangy sourness. 

''No eggs,'' he moans.

Tony snorts. ''Whatever you say, bud. So much for you not getting sick anymore, huh?''

A hologram flickers out from Tony’s phone. ''Based on the information your little drone friend sent to FRIDAY, looks like you have - ''

''Tonsillitis,'' Peter finishes moodily. 

''And a pretty wicked case of it too,'' Tony adds.

Peter doesn’t reply because the sourness in his mouth is increasing. His stomach seethes angrily and he gasps as something thick and cloying appears somewhere at the base of his throat. 

''Mister - ''

He’s never seen Tony move so fast in his life. The trash can from under his desk appears in front of him and he grabs it just as the vomit spews forth from his mouth. His breath hitches in the short pause that comes directly after, and then he’s gagging again as another wave overcomes him. 

''Easy, kid.'' A hand settles on his back and rubs in slow circles.

Peter coughs harshly, the noise echoing loudly inside the metal can, and more liquid gushes past his lips. He lets out a pathetic cry as his throat screams under the onslaught of acridness and Tony makes a low sound of sympathy.

''You’re okay, kid, you’re okay.''

''Hurts.''

''I know, bud.''

Peter vomits twice more, shoulders lurching and ribs aching, Tony’s hand a comforting press of coolness on the scorched skin of his neck. Taking a few slow breaths, Peter turns his cheek to rest against the ridge of the trash can. 

''Think you’re done?'' Tony asks after a minute of silence.

Peter nods, lips wobbling in a sudden shiver. He feels Tony’s arm come around his shoulder, fingers curling around his bicep, and tilt him backwards into the mattress as the trash can is eased out of his grip. 

‘’Be right back, kid.''

Peter fights against the urge to reach out and snag hold of Tony’s arm, mentally berating himself for wanting to do so. He shifts onto his stomach, the pillows absorbing his wheezing coughs. 

He hears the tap running in the bathroom for a moment and then Tony’s voice coming closer through the door. 

''Hi, May. Yeah, I’ve got him. He’s not doing so hot so I’m gonna take him back to the tower with me.''

Tony’s hand falls onto his back again, patting it gently. Peter twitches at the tinny sound of May’s voice coming from the other end of the phone. He can’t quite find the energy to focus on what she’s saying, but he hears the words ''sleep'' and ''shift'' at least twice. 

''Okay, yeah, will do. With any luck, his healing factor will fight it off in the next twenty four hours or so.''

Peter prays to every deity that he can think of that Tony’s right. 

''Alright, May. See you then.''

Tony’s hand starts to rub across Peter’s back again, fingers kneading gently into the sore muscles. 

''May says she'll come straight to the tower as soon as she finishes her shift.''

Peter gives a small nod, unable to hold in a sharp hiss as more pain chisels into his skull. 

''Bruce and Helen are waiting for us, ready to fix you up with the good stuff. Do you need me to carry you to the car?''

Peter makes a rasp of protest and flails upright, nearly clouting Tony in the chin with his fist.

''M’fine,'' he mumbles before pitching sideways into Tony who rocks back under the sudden weight. 

''Uh huh,'' Tony grunts, gently hoisting him back to a sitting position. ''You and I have a very different opinion of fine, kid.''

Peter lifts a hand and weakly taps the space on Tony’s chest where the arc reactor used to be. His fingers brush the thick ridges of scar tissue there and he nudges Tony’s shoulder pointedly with his forehead. 

''Yeah, well, do as I say, not as I do and all that jazz,'' Tony grumbles. ''Come on, time to blow this popsicle stand.''

Suddenly aware that he’s in nothing but a damp t-shirt and his boxers with the hole in the waistband, Peter pulls the comforter closer to his waist. A blush tinges his cheeks as Tony raises an eyebrow at him before scooping up a discarded pair of sweatpants lying on the floor. 

''Need any help?''

Peter shakes his head, though it feels like the most gargantuan effort to stick his legs out from under the comforter and shimmy them into the sweatpants. He pulls them up to his knees before trying to stand, wobbling precariously until Tony takes hold of his elbow. 

''Kid, I’d rather not add a cracked skull to your list of maladies,'' Tony shifts so that they’re face to face, Peter’s hands resting on his shoulders. ''I’ve seen the rest of the team in many states of undress over the years. You and your Hulk boxers are nothing compared to the horror of seeing Barton in the nude, trust me.''

Peter groans both out of embarrassment and from the disturbing image that briefly flickers across his mind. He’s not entirely sure that he won’t pass out if he attempts to lean over and pull the sweatpants up himself, so he tightens his grip on Tony’s shoulder as an indication for the man to go ahead. 

A few quick tugs and the pants are up to his waist. A pair of shoes are pushed onto his feet, his arms threaded through the sleeves of a hoodie, and then Tony is guiding him out of the bedroom, arm securely wrapped around his waist to prevent him from tipping over. 

''I’ve got your phone here, kid. Anything else you need? There’s plenty of clothes at the tower so don’t worry about those. Unless you’ve got any more Avengers themed underwear that you want to bring?''

The teasing laughter in Tony’s voice earns him a weak, unimpressed glare. The mood turns serious again as Peter barks out another round of coughs, clutching onto Tony as his entire body quakes. 

''Alright, kiddo, let’s go before you turn into a chunder-saurus again.''

Peter wheezes irritably but allows Tony to lead him out of the apartment. 

* * *

A short while later, there’s a pleasant dullness skipping through every part of Peter’s body. The rawness in his throat has ebbed away into numbness and the throbbing of his bones seems like a far off dream. He blinks blearily into the bright lights above as Helen Cho takes another look inside his mouth with a small torch. 

''And you used to suffer with tonsillitis how often?''

''Bou' e'ry two monffs,'' Peter garbles awkwardly.

''From the age of twelve until you were bitten, correct?''

''Uh huh.''

Helen nods, twisting the torch back and forth. ''Well, that explains what I’m seeing here.''

''What _ are _ you seeing here?'' Tony asks. 

Helen hands the torch over to Bruce and steps aside so he can take a look. 

''Yeesh,'' the man winces. ''There’s practically nothing left.''

''Wha'?'' Peter yelps, turning panicked eyes onto Tony who glares at Bruce before patting Peter on the shoulder. 

Bruce chuckles sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. ''Sorry, probably not the best way to put it.''

‘’It seems, Peter,'' Helen says after giving Bruce a look, ''that your tonsils have been so heavily infected in the past, the tissue has eroded down into almost nothing.''

Tony frowns. ''If there’s hardly anything left, why does he feel so terrible?''

Helen smiles wryly. ''If it’s there, it can get infected.''

''Gee, what a happy philosophy.''

''I suspect that his enhanced healing factor is probably speeding up the recovery process, and as anyone who has had tonsillitis will tell you, it gets worse before it gets better.''

Tony folds his arms and exhales loudly. ''Fantastic.''

Helen checks Peter’s IV line. ''Don’t worry, he’ll be over the worst of it soon enough.''

Peter shuffles down the bed a little as Bruce and Helen step away, leaving him with Tony. A thumb brushes the apple of his left cheek. 

''You doing okay there, bud?''

''Mmm,'' Peter hums, closing his eyes. ''Tired.''

''I’ll bet. I’d say it’s bedtime for all sick spider-kids, wouldn’t you?''

‘’You're so annoying,'' Peter huffs.

''At least I’m not wearing Hulk boxers.''

Peter groans, finally giving into the weariness just as Bruce says ''he’s wearing what?''

* * *

The next two days pass in a slow turn of super strength painkillers, tender hugs from May, watching hilariously bad movies with Tony on the couch and, after twenty fours of no puking, a few tubs of chocolate fudge brownie ice cream. As far as being sick goes, Peter’s definitely experienced worse and he can hardly complain about any opportunity he gets to spend time with Tony. 

What he _ can _ complain about is the conversation that’s taking place right now.

''But I don’t want surgery,'' Peter moans into his hands. 

Bruce gives him a gentle smile. ''Nobody wants surgery, Peter.''

''There’s a brigade of Barbie wannabes at Pepper’s gym who would disagree with you there, pal,'' Tony says drily, making Bruce rolls his eyes.

''I mean, this could have all just been a one off,'' Peter suggests, trying desperately hard to keep his voice steady even as his spine tingles uncomfortably with unease. ''I haven’t been sick for ages, so this could just be a case of Parker Luck, that’s all.''

May laughs. ''Parker Luck? Is that what you call it?''

Peter squints at her. ''That’s what Ben called it.''

''Oh, sweetie.'' May leans forward to kiss his cheek. ''He was just too kind to tell you when you were being a dumbass.''

There’s a chorus of warm chuckles around him as Peter groans again, tipping forward so his forehead presses into the curve of May's neck. ''May,'' he whispers, ''I don’t want to do this.''

''I know, baby,'' she rubs the back of his head, ''but I think Bruce and Helen are right. You suffered with this so much in the past, and this time it was definitely the worst it’s ever been. I don’t want you to keep going through pain like that, sweetie.''

''You don’t need to worry, Pete,'' Tony says reassuringly. ''You won’t feel a thing, trust me.''

''How can you be sure?'' Peter asks, looking at him. ''What if the anaesthetic doesn’t knock me out for long enough?''

Tony smirks. ''You remember when Cap broke his leg sledding last Christmas?''

Peter nods slowly. ''Yeah, he slept for three whole days and missed New Years.''

''That wasn’t sleeping, kid. That was the effect of the drugs used to knock him out so a pin could be put in his leg.’’

Peter’s eyes widen. ''They knocked him out for three days?''

''That won’t happen to you though, Peter,'' Bruce says quickly. ''We’ve tweaked the dosage since then so the chances of you doing an impression of sleeping beauty for anything more than a few hours is incredibly unlikely.''

''Besides,'' Helen smiles, ''it’s quite a short procedure. You’ll be in and out within half an hour, so there’s plenty of time for us to work in.''

It all sounds so reasonable and logical, Peter can’t deny that. That doesn’t stop the tumble of worrisome thoughts within his mind from creating images of waking up on the table, open and full of agony, or somehow being awake without anyone knowing, able to feel every single thing - 

''Breathe, kiddo.''

''Mister Stark,'' Peter gasps, grabbing Tony’s shirt sleeve. ''What if it goes wrong?''

''It won’t,'' Tony says firmly, taking hold of Peter’s chin with one of his hands. He looks into Peter’s eyes for a moment, letting Peter read the sincerity within his own. ''It’ll be fine, kid. I promise.''

''We wouldn’t suggest it if we didn’t think it was safe, Peter,'' May smooths her hand over his lower back. ''It’ll be the best choice in the long run.''

There’s no arguing with that. With a long, wobbly sigh, Peter nods in agreement. 

''Great,'' Bruce gives him an encouraging smile. ''We’ll see you back here in two days then.''

''Two days?'' Peter's jaw drops slightly in shock. ''It has to be that soon?''

''Sooner is better than later, kid,'' Tony says.

Peter visibly droops, slouching into May’s side with a rather pathetic groan, not at all dignified in defeat. 

* * *

''Have you decided who you want to come down with you, Peter?''

Peter stops fiddling with the hem of the scratchy gown he’s wearing and looks up at Bruce. 

''Um...no, not yet.''

Tony, standing beside May at the foot of Peter's bed, scratches his goatee a little awkwardly. May looks at him, rolls her eyes, and comes to perch beside Peter. 

''Tony’s going to go with you, honey.''

Though totally fine with that decision, and quite relieved that he doesn’t have to make it himself, Peter can’t help but feel a little sting of hurt. 

''Why not you?'' he asks before quickly looking at Tony. ''N-not that I don’t want you to come with me, Mister Stark,'' he explains hastily even as Tony waves a hand in a don’t worry gesture, ''but…''

''You’re thinking that because I’ve assisted in tons of surgeries, why wouldn’t I want to come with you while you get prepped for yours?''

''Well…Yeah.''

''It’s different when it’s someone you love,'' May says with a watery smile, leaning over to give Peter a kiss on the forehead before pulling him into a bone-squeezing hug. ''I’ll probably end up crying and that’ll make me no use to anyone, especially you.''

Peter hooks his arms tightly around her, breathing in the familiar scent of her perfume: blackcurrant and something that he assumes to be jasmine, though he’s never thought to ask. 

Another kiss is dropped to his forehead and then he’s being wheeled down by Bruce, Tony keeping pace at his side. 

Helen is waiting for them in a small area just outside the room that is typically used for any Avengers related surgeries.

''How are you feeling, Peter?''

''Uh...okay,'' Peter responds a little flatly, swallowing nervously. 

''You’ll be absolutely fine,'' she says before adjusting the bed so it lies down flat. 

''We’ll set you up with the anaesthetic out here, wait for you to fall asleep and then we’ll wheel you in.''

Peter glances at Tony. ''You’ll stay ‘til I fall asleep?''

''Absolutely, kid. I’m not going anywhere.''

Peter blows out a long breath and nods before dropping back onto the bed. He hears Bruce and Helen talk in quiet medical jargon for a moment, and then his arm is being gently eased out to the side, out of view so he can’t see it. 

''Hey,'' Tony’s face hovers above him and he immediately turns his gaze towards it. ''How about, after you wake up, we get started on that big Star Wars marathon you keep bugging me about, huh? We’ll have to invite Rhodey too, but he’s quite good in the snack department so I think it’s necessary.''

Peter nods, drawn in by Tony’s voice even as something sharp stabs the back of his hand. Tony’s fingers immediately brush into his hair, slipping down to rest against the side of his head as the sensation in his hand intensifies, making him hiss loudly. 

''You’re okay, kiddo,'' Tony murmurs softly, low and lulling, as Peter swallows loudly, a tear escaping from his left eye. Tony catches it with his thumb. ''You’re doing so good, bud, so good.''

Something cold swishes through his body and his insides turn to wet clay, heavy and dragging. Peter pushes back against the sudden wooziness, valiantly trying to keep his eyes open as they begin to close. 

''Don’t fight it, Pete,'' Tony says gently, fingers moving to trail softly through his hair again. ''Everything’s fine, you’re just gonna have a nice sleep. Just a little recharge and reboot, that’s all.''

The sense of control Peter has over his own body vanishes, leaving him boneless and so overwhelmingly sleepy that he just _ has _ to close his eyes, no longer able to fight against it. He fumbles blindly for Tony’s hand and sighs when their fingers link together. 

''That’s it,'' Tony praises, sounding further away now. ''I’m here, kid, you’re okay, nothing to worry about…''

He drifts off with Tony’s hand still carding through his hair. 

* * *

Seemingly minutes later, Peter’s fingers brush against something warm. He lazily latches onto it and a familiar rumble of laughter comes from somewhere by his head, filtering gently through the muzzy haze of his mind. 

''Jeez, kiddo, even when you’re on the strong stuff, you’ve still got a hell of a grip.''

Peter flings the hand away and burrows into the softness beneath him, feeling a fierce spike of irritation as he hears a deep chuckle.

''Ooo, this is new. Never seen you grumpy when you’ve been doped up before.''

With the greatest effort, Peter turns his head away from the direction that Tony’s voice is coming from. 

''It’s not ‘cause you’re wearing those Hulk boxers again, is it?''

Peter snarls wordlessly, dribbling into his pillow, making Tony laugh again. 

''I’m sorry, kid, I’ll stop being mean.'' A hand squeezes his shoulder. ''Go back to sleep.''

Peter does as he’s told, floating blissfully for what feels like an endless amount of days before waking to a vicious pain in his throat and a drilling ache in his hand. 

Something clicks and then heat trickles through his limbs, washing the discomfort right out of him. He sighs gratefully and then opens his eyes. 

Tony is leaning forward in a chair, elbows resting on the edge of the bed, a soft smile on his face. 

''Hi,'' Peter croaks. 

''Hi yourself, kiddo.''

''May?''

''She’ll be back soon.'' Tony says. ''How are you feeling?''

Peter twitches his arms and smacks his lips together. Despite the warmth of the painkillers in his system, he can sense the pain lingering in the background, sharp and blade-like at the back of his throat. 

''Okay,'' he eventually says, giving Tony a weak smile. 

''Yeah,'' Tony lifts a hand to run through Peter’s hair. ''You’ll feel rough for a few days, kid. Luckily, Rhodey’s on his way with what I’ve been told is a rather obscene amount of ice cream.''

Peter gives a husky laugh. ''Really?''

Tony smiles at the sound before standing to help Peter into a sitting position. ''Oh, yeah. He’s very excited. Reckons he can beat you and I in an eating contest.''

''Bit unfair,' Peter says, panting a little as he leans back into the plump pillow behind him, ''seeing as I’m recovering from surgery.''

Tony narrows his eyes, smile turning into a devilish smirk. ''Ten bucks says we can take him.''

Peter grins. ''You’re on.''

**Author's Note:**

> So as I said before, this is based on my own experiences of having tonsillitis. For over a year, I was told by doctors that it wasn't tonsillitis even though I was off school nearly every month, back and forth to the doctors to try and get a diagnosis etc and it was only when I was referred to a children's hospital and seen by a specialist, who took one look and said they'd clearly been so infected that the tissue had basically almost rotted away, that I was officially diagnosed and went in for the op about two weeks after that. 
> 
> My dad was the one who couldn't go in because he knew he would cry watching me get put to sleep haha, so my mum was the one talking to me as I fell asleep, and then I woke up and felt like crap for two weeks. Oh the joys of being poorly! 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for reading! <3 Kudos and comments appreciated or come chat to me on tumblr!


End file.
